Early morning early spring
Leaning down to drink from the stream my head becomes huge
and heavy I lift it and water trickles down my long neck
and far far over two horizons I see all my brothers and sisters
lifting their heads and seeing all their brothers and sisters lifting their heads
and everywhere the water wells up from deep chambers behind the heavy eyes
of owls and the huge moons of early mornings and streams
down the neck of the mountain to where I drink
patiently drop by drop until I’m quenched and I look up
and the mountain’s shoulder my home is alive with my heavy-footed friends
the grey beech trees whose dance is pushing soft green leaves into the early morning
face of the bright sun and everywhere my new friends
the squirrel children dance along the ground rustling the leaves
and dance along the branches rustling the leaves I look over my shoulder
the squirrels’ tambourines tickle the ears of every acre between here and the far darkness
the seedlings ready to feed me my droppings feed the new shoots
learning to breathe drinking the light my breath drinking the sweetness
the warmth of my new friend the bright sun the zest of flashes
of pale lichen flashes of pale bark echoes of old snows
and every young beech tree between here and the mountain’s grizzled pate
lightly touches its neighbours and whispers the excitement
is spreading in a breath of breeze passing over and through and beyond
I hear it reaching the lake where the geese take up the call
brothers and sisters we’re back and we want you to take up our challenge and our call
will feed you moments of frenzy and the chirrup of the squirrels replies
we’re ready and the new shoots are ready and pushing
the sweet air hissing over my head bristling with promises
a tremor passes through the trees and the mountain and a tremor
passes through me and I lean down to drink again
Dusk
The red fox shivers as she slips across the lawn.
No-one’s there to see her, or so she hopes.
No-one’s there to see her but the lumbering porcupine
who pauses to note the quick light steps,
then dawdles on, unimpressed
by any flash of grace or show of skill
that serves no need now. He’ll save his finesse
for dealing with fear and for finding a meal
and for his prickly lover who’s prowling the thickets
of deep silence at the roots of his eyes
but who’ll never discover his cache of secrets
no matter how long or how hard she tries.
And now he reaches the red-berried thorn bush
where the wild woods meet the mown lawn.
He dips and snuffles his nose to acknowledge
the mute brotherhood of the spine.
The porcupine lives on Bee Tree Hill;
he’s heading there now and thrusts into the woods.
The dull but still green leaves of the mountain laurel
will close behind him as the daylight fades
and the cold burns the eyes of the red fox.
She’s grinning now as well as shivering
because her teeth are a clamp for a grey mouse.
She’s bringing it home to her children.
A sparrow spins
A sparrow spins on a branch.
She’s trying to catch up to her head.
Winter sets the rules, and she’ll need
her dappled coat of feathers to warm her blood.
Her eyes are two moments of laughter in a terrible day.
Her eyes are the warm brown and promise of acorns.
Her voice is a book of illuminations, trilling and bleeding sunshine.
Her voice rocks the mountain and shivers the breeze.
Woven into her marvellous nest, a thread
from my coat, a hair from my head,
and a straw from the height of the frenzy of summer.
She flew over to where I stood
with dust in my eyes and my mouth full of sand.
She fluttered her wings, and said
I don’t have to freeze up now;
to freeze up now I have to tread
on someone’s shell and it might be yours
and it might be mine, but it’ll surely
take more than a solitary word
to reach into the dark space we inhabit
and bring the winter to an end.
Her silence is a lone fish, a bass, in a pool in a deserted quarry.
Her silence incubates a dense globe of polished oak.
Her flight, when it happens, is quick and abrupt.
Her flight is a garland of twigs and seeds.
A sparrow knows what it is to be cold
on a bare branch, under a desolate sky.
Winter sets the rules, but she’ll keep her head
clear and her song warm and live another day.
The apple tree
The apple tree sports a painted wound on its skin.
At the first probe of morning the wood weeps.
A herd of tiny green cattle graze on a leaf
tended by bustling ants.
My father and my son are shaded by the blossoms
that crumble to the touch like old paper.
Love letters and snapshots flutter
down on the two companions.
I’m in the sunshine, growing red,
free to burn with longing.
The petals in my pocket weigh nothing
but I’m breathing hard.
Catch fire
Catch fire, calls the tallest tree
Our temperate days are over
The tree calls catch fire
But who will spark the tinder?
I will, roars the storm cloud
Giving the air a shake
The cloud roars I’ll spark
But who will fan the flames?
I will, breathes the gusting wind
I’ll make the leaves fly
The wind breathes I’ll fan
But who will feed the fire?
I will, sighs the tallest tree
I fear it’s in my nature
Bring your spark and fan my flames
the tree sighs catch fire.
© Copyright T. G. Vanini . All Rights Reserved.
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